


A Howling Silence

by Lestire_Iillas



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 'if Tolkien never explicitly said it didn't happen then it's canon-compliant', Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, M/M, Menstruation, Other, PTSD, Past Miscarriage, Relatively Canon-Compliant, as long as you take that to mean, background drug use, elves of colour, mentions of sex/masturbation, nonbinary Mairon, past vague trauma, trans Maglor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestire_Iillas/pseuds/Lestire_Iillas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History runs deep and allegiances are unclear when Maedhros is taken prisoner. </p>
<p>Some things can be mended, others heal on their own, and still others may be doomed from the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day Maedhros came to meet us head on had a howling, biting wind to it. He stood proud and tall, helmet under his right arm, even as he realised we far outnumbered the Elves he’d brought with him. All of us knew there was no diplomatic solution to be reached that day, and before the charge of his people I saw a deep grey exhaustion on his face, creeping like mold into his body.

Melkor had ordered he be taken alive, and it was a solid blow to the head that had him fall limp to the muddy ground, had me wonder in morbid fascination what could be in store for him. His guard was killed, his disarmed person slung over my shoulder like some deer over Oromë’s. He’d awoken by the time the Orcs were cutting off all his hair, and tried in his dizzy exhaustion to overpower them. He hadn’t stood a chance.

There was a fearful look in his eye when we chained him to the mountain but he was silent for the time, looking ever to the south in blind hope.

-

His five surviving brothers appeared at the gate after four days of keeping him captive. Lord Melkor had gotten word that Elven spies had been found in the mountains and plains around us, obviously tracking our patrols, our defenses, and what was happening to Maedhros. Of course, Melkor had no plans to keep secret our hostage, and he let them watch. It was expected, really, that they would come after him. They ambushed a returning patrol of Orcs and wolves, coming back from a routine check about our borders.

Caranthir the Dark, ever zealous and ever angered, flung a grappling hook atop the walls when the patrol was dead and we had yet to open the gate. The Orcs let him climb halfway up before cutting him down. I heard a crack of bone from where I stood ready to crash through the doors if Melkor commanded it, where I stood listening for Maglor’s sweet and commanding voice, where I heard it pleading for his brother.

They left defeated by the black stone of Angband, Celegorm and Curufin helping their brother limp between them.

-

It seemed like a faint noise at first, one no one was able to place, but within two days it was Mairon who figured it out. Maedhros was _talking_. We expected it to stop after a while, but the Elf clearly had some gifts from his father because he kept it up for months - he took pauses when his throat ran ragged or when exhaustion overtook him, but soon enough he would continue. He listed the crimes of Melkor, of Mairon, of Thuringwethil and myself, he told and retold the history of his people, he cited Quenya grammar, listed and defined words in order of what they rhymed with, sang songs written by his brother, and conjugated verbs. He described different plants by genus. He detailed the processes of bookbinding, mapmaking, smithing, and all manner of crafts. He even recited children’s jokes.

The number of times I saw someone, Orc and Ainu alike, relaxed in his lapses and grow violent in his commencement was beyond count. Mairon alone must have ruined hundreds of documents, weapons, and pieces of furniture in their bouts of rage at Maedhros’ refusal to quiet.

-

Bets had been placed within our fortress on how long it would take the Fëanorions to make a second attempt at taking back Maedhros. Thuringwethil got rich off favours and promises of drinks by guessing a month. None of us, though, had thought that it would be Amras, the living twin living half a life, who would appear drunk and loud at the gate. His armour was half-unclasped and one look at him from the ramparts told me that if any creature came out from Angband, he was going to die.

There was a stirring of the fortress, a clamour among the Orcs that told me my master was preparing for battle. Amras was stumbling over curses and daring each of us beasts to face him. Melkor was smiling and humming a deep spell while Mairon armed and armoured him.

I’m sure I hadn’t consciously betrayed him, but it had been a skittish and idle set of years since I’d slept with Maglor, and thinking back on it I’m sure he heard every thought of mine that he so wished. By the time Amras had broken down in the dust, by the time Melkor was taking smooth, heavy strides across the yard to see this Elf defeated, there was a mare and a dark rider charging to our gates. When the great doors were heaved open with the creaking sound of a mountain’s bones, Amras was gone with nothing left of him but the trail from Maglor’s horse.

-

It had been a year of a volatile Mairon and a restless Melkor, of the light of the Silmarils still settling in the halls of Angband, of an outraged Elf chained and shouting on the mountainside. It had been a year and I was in the middle of smithwork when I heard the first words Maglor spoke to me in Beleriand echo through my head. There was a part of me that was surprised the Valar hadn’t annulled our marriage, but another part that knew Maglor would never have breathed a word of it to them.

 _I’ve nowhere else to turn._ The sound of him, the feel of him running through me made me drop the hammer and swear aloud. _By rights, I shouldn’t trust you with anything, any scrap or sliver of my life, but I have no other choice._

 _Káno_ , I tried, but I was too quiet and too fearful to have hopes of being heard by him.

 _My brothers are planning another rescue and I can’t let them throw away their lives in vain like this. We’ve lost too much already._ His plan was simple. I listened, terrified of discovery while he detailed my role and pleaded with me to spare his brothers where I had shown his father no mercy.

-

When it came time, everything fell into place. Maedhros was silent that day, and I should have known what was coming when crows and vultures even circled above him, but I paid no mind to the birds. Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin rode to our gate and dismounted. Caranthir’s walk was still uneven in the slightest of ways. I asked Lord Melkor if I could handle them myself, and he, thinking this to be nothing but my attempt at continuing what I’d started with Fëanor, agreed on the condition that he watch.

As I finally stood before the three of them, blazing at my fullest, I saw when each of them realised for themselves who I was. Caranthir, of course, was the last to know and the first to speak.

“You dare show yourself before us, murderer?”

I did my best to show off some arrogance, “And why shouldn’t I? You frighten me not. Besides, you come on a pointless errand.”

Celegorm drew himself up, “What say you? Be plain.”

It took a moment for me to school myself for the lie, scared that Melkor didn’t want it this way, “Your brother has stopped his singing. Can you not see that he has perished?”

They looked to Thangorodrim and I could tell they were all differently convinced. Curufin began a soft prayer to Námo but caught himself and quieted. Caranthir turned back to me with blazing eyes, “Will you fight us? Do us that honour at least.”

The urge to take up my axe and cut them down bubbled up and I nearly followed it, but I managed to conjure up a smile and hear out some of my worst instincts, “I will chase you down, but I will not kill you. Instead, you would each face a fate worse than that of Nelyafinwë, with your family dwindling and your hope all but gone. You cannot think to be rescued by Makalaurë, the _coward_ \- ”

Caranthir nearly ran at me, but Curufin held him by the neck, never breaking his stare at me. As I sent a nod at the Orcs manning the gate, fire kindling in my mind, Curufin lied, “We ride from here, and we will return with an army.”

I took the axe on my back in both hands and ran for them, as they were remounting and as what must have been several score of Orcs and a half dozen Balrogs flooded from the gate. In my head I alternated between halting and prayerlike apologies to Maglor, and the mindless thrill that came from hunting them. Arrows fired at them, and the flame from my weapon singed their horses’ tails, but they had speed on their side, and a part of me dearly hopes that if I’d not been sure of their escape, I would not have chased them. Another part of me knows that I was sure of no such thing.

-

In the end, it was Fingon, still bundled in rough animal skins and frostbitten from the Helcaraxë, who seized the love of Manwë himself and recovered the High King of the Noldor. Mairon took his severed hand from the bloodied, lonely shackle on the mountainside, and threw it to their wolves.


	2. Chapter 2

Maglor awoke in the middle of the night, gasping for air after his dreams of fire and ash. He could feel, with a heavy dread, the feel of his sheets, sticky with his blood. He cast off the covers and stood to strip the bed, letting his ruined night-robe fall to the dusty ground of the tent with a sigh. He could feel the beginnings of pain in his abdomen. It would be a long night.

Even when he’d lined a loose-fitting pair of leggings with rags after washing himself off, sure that he’d not bleed freely and wearing a too-large tunic, Maglor couldn’t bring himself to rest. There was a stirring and strange excitement within him. He paced until he stopped at the entrance to the tent. He untied the fastenings of the cloth door, letting it blow open. He stepped barefoot into the night, a chill on the air, silent as a dead man’s breath, restless and black as the ocean.

The wind changed direction for a split second and Maglor felt more than saw the shadow from above, before the thunderclap of feathers cut through the air. Despite himself, he swallowed and offered feeble praise to Manwë before seeing what - who - was held in Thorondor’s talons.

He was speechless, filled with relief beyond words that Maedhros had been returned to them, and filled with fear at the sight of the great Eagle. He barely registered Amras rushing to his side, clutching at his shoulder, Curufin falling to his knees before a shocked Fingon, Caranthir silent for once in his tears, and Celegorm carrying Maedhros, unconscious, to the tent of the nearest healer.

-

It took a while, but Curufin put the pieces together. Maglor was in the middle of another letter to Thingol, one in their seemingly endless correspondence, a confusing mess of Quenya and Sindarin that had settled into grudging Sindarin over the years. His third youngest (second youngest, he was the second youngest now) brother swept in, dark robes brushing the ground. “What is it, Curvo?”

Curufin’s stare knocked against Maglor’s skull until he was made to face him. Curufin’s tone was even as a parent’s patient scolding, “It was you, wasn’t it? You told… you told him to convince us Maitimo was dead.”

“Well, it stopped you from going after him, didn’t it?” Maglor would never have said it, but he felt shame then.

“So you admit that - ”

“I couldn’t lose any more of you.” Curufin went silent, and Maglor tried to steady himself. “We’d just had adar taken from us. We’d just lost Telvo. We didn’t know if the others would follow us, or who we would ever see again. I wasn’t going to let you throw away your lives, let Morgoth cut you down, let - ”

His brother said nothing, merely watching him falter. “I wasn’t going to let _Gothmog_ cut you down.”

Curufin rolled his eyes, “Ah. Of course. Eru forbid he kill one of your kin - oh wait…”

“Get out. I’ll not speak with you about this.” Curufin left, knocking over the inkwell Maglor had been using and ruining the letter. Maglor barely suppressed the urge to follow his brother and give him a piece of his mind. It would have to wait until the morning - late morning, by the looks of it, since he would have to rewrite the letter before he could think of sleep.

-

The only one of them to have nightmares in Valinor had been Amrod. All of them had some after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, and Amras especially was plagued after the burning of the ships. What Maglor had seen Maedhros experience, though, was beyond anything else he’d encountered. He would awake screaming, reaching with what was left of his withered right arm, unable to speak in his pain. It wasn’t just at night, either - certain sounds that were reminiscent of those at Angband, as well as looking down from a place high up could send him into petrifying flashbacks. Most of the time, it was memories of Thangorodrim that sent him into these states, but there was something different about this one.

They all knew that one of them had to sleep a room over from him because the new walls of Himring were so much thicker than the canvas of tents. It meant Maglor didn’t have far to go when he was woken up. He was a rush of robes until he knelt at Maedhros’ bedside. He knew by now not to shake him out of it, or to lay his hands on his brother to still him. Celegorm had tried that and made Maedhros’ waking somehow worse than the dream.

He looked to be fighting something off, even if all he was doing was leaving his scarred chest bare in the cold air. “Maitimo. _Maitimo_. Wake up. You’re safe, you’re among your family, it’s time for your dream to end. Maitimo, can you hear me?”

A cold hand gripped Maglor’s wrist. Maedhros’ eyes snapped open and he gasped, “Tuialorë.”

It took a moment for Maglor to understand in the silence that followed, Maedhros’ breath slowly steadying. “Oh… I’m so sorry - ”

“Káno, he called me his king. Tell me I’m not king, tell me who has the crown…” He was frightened, shaking.

“Nolofinwë. You gave it to him.” Maglor paused, considering his options, “I don’t blame you. It was the best thing you could have done.”

But Maedhros was long past the kingship by then, “He was killed, cut down in that battle, I saw him, Káno, I _saw him_.”

“I know. I know - ”

“It was so reckless, so nearsighted, so - ” He broke off. It was all Maglor could do to keep from crying out at his brother’s tight hold on his wrist. “He would have done anything for me. He _did_ everything for me.”

Maglor eyed him warily, knowing where this was headed, “Don’t - ”

“It’s my fault he’s - ”

“Tuialorë loved you, as you loved him. You would have done the same, I know it, if your roles had been reversed.” Maglor found himself whispering, as though he were speaking secrets.

“But they were not. I was not made to be a king.” He let out a cynical laugh, “Look what happened when our people trusted me with the title.”

“Maitimo, you cannot blame yourself.” Maglor moved to sit on the edge of the bed, but was turned away.

“I can do nothing else. I won’t try to sleep again tonight - you may leave.”

Maglor stood straight as he could, and sighed, “Try to be gentle with yourself, brother.” He left and closed the door behind him as soft as he could, flinching when it clicked into the frame.

-

Fingon was visiting, which was always good. Even when tensions ran high between their families, the sight of his smile and the sound of his generous laughter could often offer a sense of relief to the Fëanorions. As it was, he and Maedhros were in the courtyard at Himring, fully armed and lightly armoured, sparring while Maglor watched from the open hallway above.

There was a slight sheen of sweat on Fingon’s dark skin, even if Maedhros looked like he was hardly exerting himself. He seemed to be disoriented by his cousin’s left-handed swordplay, only barely managing most of his blocks and missing plenty of openings. Finally, Fingon’s sword clattered to the ground and he threw his hands up in defeat. Maedhros’ lips thinned in frustration, “You let me win.”

Fingon laughed, nearly breathless, “Is that what it looks like to you? If I were an Orc, I’d be dead.”

Maglor smiled for a moment, wanting to join in, but thought better of it. It was taking a toll on Maitimo, being constantly under the supervision of his little brothers, and Maglor knew it would be better to give him space. He pushed his curly black hair, ever prone to being windswept, back behind his ear and continued on inside.

-

Here and there, anywhere from once in five years to twice in a week, I felt Maglor’s thoughts brush against mine. Sometimes, it must have been accidental - like when he projected memories of our time together in Valinor, alone in the middle of the night, in his cold chamber at Himring, coming up with creative ways to keep warm. Other times, though, were deliberate.

It had been thirteen years since I’d seen any of the sons of Fëanor, thirteen years since Maedhros had been rescued, and he and Maglor as well as a delegation of their people were riding to Ivrin to feast with Fingolfin. It was only a moment, but Maglor looked to the north, to the towering peaks of Thangorodrim, visible from dozens of leagues off.

 _I wish you’d never left._ It was something I heard loud and clear, as though my husband were there before me, hands like amber at the back of my neck. And then it was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently Tuialorë is a person who happened


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part is supposed to be Gothmog talking to Mairon. I don't know if that's clear enough aaahhh.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re _married_ and _you never told me_? This has to be the worst thing since you and Curumo and that thing with the ants.” Mairon took a second to scrutinise me, “No, actually, this is worse.”

I smiled, embarrassed, “I’m sorry. It just… never came up, did it?”

“Gothmog, that is a terrible excuse. It’s been, what, eighty years now? You’ve been listening to me complain about my romantic life for that long and it never occurred to you to say, ‘oh, speaking of Melkor snoring and unsatisfying morning sex, I know exactly what you’re going through, because, funny story, I’ve married - ’”

“Makalaurë Kanafinwë.”

“Yes, Makalaurë - ” They frowned and cut themself off, growing more incredulous by the second, “You didn’t tell me he was an _Elf_. And a Fëanorion, no less. That has to be…”

They looked at me with something like pity, and I barely resisted snapping at them, “Yes, it’s difficult, and awkward, and I hate to admit it but I dread the day I meet him in battle.”

Mairon glanced around, knowing full well that we were the only two in that high tower room, the wind whistling by the arrow-thin windows and the deep sounds of the forges rumbling from below, “I was going to say it has to be a tight fit.”

I laughed, despite everything. Mairon was relentless, “And here I was, thinking you’d told me all the dull things Aulë and Curumo and that bastard Ëonwë got up to in my absence, thinking that could encompass everything. How was I supposed to know you’d… what did happen, anyway? How could you possibly end up together?”

Mairon leaned back on their pile of furs and cushions while I tried to decide where to begin. I could feel them burning for some answer or another, but they let me find my words as they came slowly. I knew, by all accounts, that some of this would inevitably reach the ears of Melkor, but I trusted Mairon beyond the ends of Arda, and just as importantly, I’d had no one to tell of this. Perhaps, I thought, it would be an easier burden to bear if Mairon could shoulder some of it.

-

I know you have some strong opinions about Ilúvatar’s Music, and before you get started on them, so do I. You know that. But, still, just as you use song to weave your spells, so music has woven spells upon me. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You have absolutely no right to judge me for being dramatic.

I’d met Maglor a few times before this - it was inevitable with his mother being Mahtan’s daughter, always spending time in the forges, and his father, Mahtan’s apprentice. Even from Nerdanel and Fëanor’s childhood, they were getting under our feet, and many of us who remained in Aulë’s service held a place in our hearts for Nerdanel. It is not to say that her own parents weren’t caring and compassionate and skilled in their raising of her, but she learned from us so quickly and spent her time so insistently with us that she was like our collective daughter. Fëanor, of course, was always a bit of a hellraiser, but we respected Nerdanel’s decision to marry him.

Maglor must have been… he was just over a hundred and a score years old - not Valian years, of course. Can you imagine? And I think Celegorm was almost of age by then. Maglor was visiting our halls with his mother and little Curufin, who was very young and clever even then. Nerdanel graciously introduced us over dinner, and afterwards… Mairon, let me know if I ramble, will you?

Afterwards, he played for us. You were there for the Music just as I was, but, oh, this was something so earthly, so imperfect and beautifully seperate from what Eru must think of as divine. I know now that from that night on I was falling for him. With just a harp and his voice, he created something I’d never experienced before, and it drew me in and kept me there. Even with his mother, brother and grandfather there, even with _Aulë_ there and Curumo, I was so emboldened once he’d finished that I asked if he would like to join me for the evening. No, for nothing like that. I picked up my old lute quite a bit more after you left, and I felt confident enough to ask him to join me in song - nothing more, at the time.

You should have seen him, Mai. He’d been given one of those rooms in the lower caves, with a great fireplace and no windows, but a high chimney to the outside world. We were so alone that not even Telperion could see us, and I’ll never forget that first time hearing his voice twining with mine. His hair was shining like burning coals in the firelight, his eyes closed half the time and the other half looking to me. I wanted to impress him so desperately, and I _did_. Somehow, I managed it, and by the time the night was fading and the Halls began to stir around us, he invited me to perform with him at one of High King Finwë’s parties. And, of course, we had to meet up again to practice for that.

I was starstruck, and I like to think that he was as well. We made a habit of playing music together, somehow, even if Fëanor was less than approving of having a Maia in his home, and that quickly turned into something… perhaps not more personal, but definitely more intimate, for we began to talk to each other, speaking on musical theory, debating philosophy, and even talking about our personal lives. I slowly grew familiar with his brothers, and by the time the Ambarussa were born I’d become a regular fixture in that house.

I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly when we went from playing songs _with_ each other to playing _for_ each other, but I do remember when it hit me. Maglor had been distracted all that morning, his rhythm just ever so slightly off, and at a certain point, Laurelin shining heavily through the open doorway from his balcony, and the Ambarussa scurrying about in the hall, he got up to close the door. He looked at me with the kind of intent I found hard to place and he said to me, “Meldonya, if I have you listen to something I wrote, you cannot laugh.”

And I said, “Of course,” and I swear by everything, he sang me the sweetest, most heart-wrenching love song I’d ever heard. No, I won’t sing it here. I wanted so badly for it to be about me, and part of me knew, but I was unsure. When he finished, his hands were shaking on his harp and he couldn’t look at me. I knelt beside him, but before I could say anything, he’d kissed me.

-

“All right, sure, so he had good hair and he kissed you. You could have just said that.” But Mairon was smiling and they looked as though a weight had been lifted from between us.

I rolled my eyes, chuckling, “It’s not that simple and you know it. I could say the same of you, and you don’t see us married.”

“Listen, it’s nothing personal,” I could hear the laugh in their voice, “It’s just that Melkor is, by far, more attractive than you.”

“I am _offended_ by that, and if Maglor were here I’m sure he’d have something to say about that.”

Our mood was dampened instantly. Mairon drew a long breath, biting their lip in pause before speaking their mind, “Perhaps you shouldn’t ideate on Maglor being here.” We were silent, Mairon busying themself with fixing their cushions, and eventually turning to me, “When it comes time, Gothmog, you know where your loyalties must lie.”

-

Maglor was restless, pacing in his chamber. At first he thought it might have been the moon, full and bright and shining clearly enough that he could see from his window the construction of his keep in the valley below. After a long while, mulling over his thoughts, he began to feel it. He cursed me aloud for keeping him awake with thoughts of Valinor and of us. Frustrated, he threw himself down on the chair before his harp and plucked at it listlessly.

Unbidden and painful, Maglor knew the song that was filtering through his mind from mine. His head in his hands, he sang as though to draw poison from a wound.

_The fire in me,_  
_Burns only for you, love, can’t you see?_  
_Light from the dark,_  
_Oh, show me the way, you’ve left your mark._  
_Will you look here,_  
_Give me your all and keep me near?_


	4. Chapter 4

Smaug awoke screaming in the middle of the night. His wings were less torn than they’d been that evening, but still blood thrashed from them and soaked into the hot stones that made up his roost. For the time being, I was the only one he suffered to pass, and I’d been at his side for hours. He was such a small thing still, yet to grow larger than my own battle-form, and he’d so nearly been cut down in fighting with the Noldor. I was trying my best not to think about who we’d been trying to kill.

We’d lost, great swathes of our Orcs cut down by the Elves, and it had been intended to be a training exercise for this one of our youngest Dragons, but clearly everything had not gone according to plan. What glimpses I had into Maglor’s mind were of a decisive but bitter victory for them. Despite our having clearly lost, Melkor had insisted that we feast and drink in the wake of the battle. I had a feeling he wasn’t quite sure what to do with defeat.

My healing powers were limited, much more so than Mairon’s, and for the most part the best thing I could do was simply watch as Smaug slept fitfully, there to comfort him when he awoke. While I’d trained him for a long time, there was something about holding this vigil, about seeing this blossoming creature vulnerable and scared, that invoked new emotions in me, emotions that took me a while to place properly. I did reach clarity over it eventually, but wasn’t sure what to do with the parental feelings washing over me.

Eventually, of course, I ended up reaching out to Maglor. It had been a while, not counting my having seen him from across a score of Noldor and Orcs, and having promptly made my way in the opposite direction. Perhaps it was because I was exhausted, and perhaps it was my judgement lacking from Thuringwethil’s juniper wine, but most likely it was the young Dragon trying to return to his sleep before me which incited the thought: _It would have been nice if we were parents._

There was nothing that could have prepared me for the wave of anger and pain that followed from his end. I could feel him cycling through responses, arguing with himself over something witty and something designed to hurt me, before he settled on something raw and honest. _We nearly were,_ and flashes of blood staining the sand at Alqualondë while it streamed down Maglor’s legs, while he collapsed into Maedhros’ arms, too inconsolable in pain and horror to answer Fëanor’s confused and livid questions. _We should have been._

-

It took years, thinking about our irregular-at-best communication and trying to bury my allegiance in work, and it took a drunk Thuringwethil attempting to explain Thingol’s new language laws to a smoked-up Mairon for me to let myself think about it. She was detailing some singer who’d been charged with speaking Quenya in public for performing some songs of Maglor’s. Both of them were trying their best not to look at me, but Thuringwethil stole glances every so often to gauge my reactions. Maybe it was because we were in her rooms that she was acting so responsible all of a sudden.

It was so fast - I went from sounding out his sindarised name in my head to wondering what he might have named our child, from remembering the sound of his music to picturing him at my side, singing lullabies to send a baby with dark, curly hair and little horns to sleep. Only when he pushed at me, _Stop it, please, I can’t do this,_ did I realise what I was thinking.

Instead of shying away as perhaps I should have, though, I pursued that wisp of thought he left me and asked, _When did you plan on telling me?_

A quick look at his surroundings told me it wasn’t the best time for me to be asking about his miscarriage, since he was in some council with his brothers, exhausted from hours of debating policy and trade, the table littered with proposals and legal writings and mugs of tea that had been refilled with wine, Caranthir and Curufin pointing fingers and having lost their original argument in personal insults. But, then, I think there would never have been a good time to bring it up.

_Honestly, Ásth-_ he didn’t stop himself in time to extinguish the beginning of my old name. _Gothmog, I didn’t. That’s the thing about abandoning and betraying your spouse. I didn’t feel all that compelled to keep you up to date, and in fact, Maitimo especially warned me against telling you for fear of what you might do._

I took a moment to settle into that information, tuning out Mairon and Thuringwethil who had started coming up with rhymes to illustrate how much they disliked Thingol. _I’m sorry that I left._

I heard and felt him whispering his words as he thought them, drawing concerned looks from Amras beside him, _Oh, you’re sorry? Well, that makes everything better. It’s as though I never awoke alone to that letter you left that listed all the reasons I wasn’t enough to stop you from joining that murderous, blasphemous thing who dares call himself a Vala, or like I wasn’t reminded every day of that pain by what was growing inside me, like our union isn’t among the heaviest shames I carry, like I don’t hate myself for thinking of you for comfort, like you didn’t kill my father in front of me -_

He was silent, and I hardly had to reach to know he’d started crying, bound by duty to that room with his volatile brothers. I sensed Amras’ gentle hand on my husband’s shoulder and decided the best thing would be to leave him be.

-

As it turned out, Thingol’s language laws were hard to enforce on the Fëanorions’ land. While sometimes they would run into trouble over a visitor or messenger out of Doriath, the soldiers, citizens and noblemen living under any given son of Fëanor were nearly all Noldor, with the occasional odd Vanya. People coming in from outside their lands, though, were few and far between.

I wore my more Elven form, revelling in having long, delicate fingers again, in having a more compact and graceful form, in being able to ride a horse. The beast was steady beneath me, and I was grateful because I was unsure how far I would have gotten otherwise. Sure, I had my duty to Melkor in this, but couldn’t have said at the time whether it was worth it.

I had debated with myself whether to keep my horns, whether I should have just masqueraded as an Elf entirely in this, which was arguably a stealth mission. In the end though, I decided to be as upfront as I could without getting myself killed, or worse, getting someone else killed. Thangorodrim loomed behind me, and the straw-and-stone fortress rose up from the valley before me. Some lookout must have seen me coming, because there was a small commotion by the time I reined the horse in before the gate. A voice came from the ramparts, in accented Sindarin, though it was unclear which of the bustling figures spoke, “Who approaches? State your name and allegiance.”

I smiled before responding in Quenya, “I am Ásthilmar Aulëion,” and I paused, considering what answer they might like best to the second part.

Before I could finish, though, I saw him. It was his cloud of black hair being tossed about in the harsh wind that caught my eye, and for a split second our glances met, his full of a stern kind of urgency, and mine wondering what I’d gotten myself into. He said something to one of the guards, far too quiet for me to hear, and a moment later the gate was pushed open, an Elf beckoning me in but clutching a spear tight in their hand, as though I might strike at any moment. It was a reasonable fear.

Within moments, the crack of his steel-and-leather boots against the stone stairs leading from above the gate echoed through the courtyard. I dismounted and turned to get a better look at him. His robes were of blue and white silk, open at the front to show that he wore light leather armour underneath, and not quite long enough to touch the ground. He had on a modest silver diadem and long earrings that I remembered him fidgeting with in Valinor. His face was carefully schooled and neutral. He spoke to one of the guards that let me in, “Have his horse stabled and cared for,” and then to me, avoiding my eyes, “Come, we’ll speak inside.”

I shook my head at his readiness to admit me, and quickly caught up to him where he strode towards what must have been the entrance to his hall. I looked about me at what he’d built - flourishing, if provisional, gardens among the harsh northern lands, and I’d seen plenty of farms and mills on my way in. There were children playing in the courtyard, their parents at market stalls and chatting idly. For what had been described to me as a military outpost, placed closer to our border than most dared even look, it was relaxed and peaceful. Many of the Noldor, it seemed, had made it not just where they lived, but had made it their home. A shiver of unease ran through me, knowing that this was our enemy.

“This place seems well-built,” I said to the back of Maglor’s head.

He whipped around, stepping closer to me than anyone had in months, and he was the blazing image of his father, “I know that’s why you’re here. You wouldn’t come out of charity or pity. You’re here to scout this place out - don’t bother denying it. I know the cost of allowing you here, and I am sure I will pay it in full.” He took a breath. “We will speak inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this count as a cliffhanger? if so, I'm sorry. it's going to pick up right where it left off with none of the usual skipping forward a few years.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [takes a several-month-long-break] [updates twice in a week] no one can ever accuse me of being consistent. this gets kinda risqué in the last little section and if you're not into that it doesn't really have any plot so no worries?

Maglor’s hall was relatively modest, by Noldor standards. There were long tables pushed against the stone walls, which seemed like they could seat at least a hundred people. The walls themselves were lightly adorned with woolen weaving-work - mostly simple designs that looked more like repurposed rugs than tapestries, but there was one that stood out to me. It was a rough but honest and beautiful depiction of the Trees, the threads making up the bark in metallic silver and gold. Though there were no Valar in sight, it was an interesting choice, considering the Fëanorions’ relationship with Valinor in general.

At the end of the long hall, there were a few stairs leading up to a dais, and Maglor’s carved wooden throne stood there almost shyly. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he was a prince. Despite the unlikelihood of him tripping on his short robes, he lifted them to walk up the first two steps. I couldn’t help the spike of affection at his habits. He obviously felt it, because as I was moving to follow him, he stopped and turned abrubtly, eyes scanning the room. We were alone. From where he stood elevated, he was about the same height as me, and clasped a steady hand on my shoulder. I stepped forward so my left foot was on the stair below him, and he cupped my cheek with his other hand. We both trembled slightly at the touch, having been apart for decades.

I saw him run through a series of anxieties and reasons he had to hate me, before leaning in for a solid, tensing kiss. We must have stayed connected in that timid kind of re-exploration for a while, because when I pulled back he was flushed, his hair in disarray from my hands running through it. I asked, “Should I not have come?”

He glared, “You should have asked me sooner. Now…” He looked away and I threaded my fingers though his. “Now, how am I supposed to turn you away?”

With a deep click, the door to the hall was pushed open and he recoiled from me in the way that I arguably should have done as well, and within a moment he was sitting with his back tall, one arm lazy on the armrest of the throne, his legs confidently apart and his feet solid on the ground. He stared down the intruder with a single eyebrow raised.

I looked for a moment to see someone, unarmoured and in plain clothes, pulling the benches beneath the tables out to the centre of the room. It was, I supposed, approaching what the Elves considered time for the evening meal. Such things tended to get lost at Angband, with most of its residents taking meals at will, and the rest not mortal enough to bother with such irritating, time-consuming things as food. Hesitantly, I thought loud enough for him to hear, _We could take this somewhere more private, you know._

The waves of annoyance that followed were a clear enough message against that idea.

-

Dinner was an interesting affair. Maglor himself was at the head of the table, as would be expected, and despite everything, I was on his left, across from a nervous Elf who turned out to be his captain of the guard. I ate mostly out of courtesy, though it seemed like I must have been doing something wrong because I kept being offered different foods when all I had on my plate was a few fermented olives.

Once most of the guests had left, all ranging from warriors and nobles to craftsfolk and merchants, Maglor stood and gathered himself. I glanced out the high window at the far end of the hall, the sky black outside, and spoke just loud enough for him to hear, “What do you want to do with me tonight?”

I felt him shake for a moment, letting me know he’d heard that in exactly the way I should not have meant it. “I should very much throw you to the cold and send you back to your master.”

I said plainly, “I hope my horse is rested, then.”

“I’m sure that if you so needed, you could carry it.” A thin smile played on his face, “I shall not throw you out, though I do wonder if I should trust you with my bed.”

I checked for anyone that might be listening, but almost all were gone, and the rest were otherwise absorbed, “I promise I won’t break it.”

“You know, I can just as easily have a guest room prepared for you.”

“Ah, but then you won’t be able to monitor my every move.”

“This is what I have guards for.”

“Must you make it so difficult for me to slip into your chamber and - ” I was cut off by Maglor pulling me up by the horn and leading me from the hall. Slipping down a corridor and into a room I presumed was his, he closed and locked the door behind us, hardly sparing a moment to pull me against him and back himself into the wall. We were kissing again, and this time he held none of the fear at being caught with me. Between the wall and myself, he managed to get both his legs on my hips and clasp them there by his feet, gripping the cloth of my tunic as though it were a precipice and I an abyss.

Gradually, he slowed from being frantic, and the warmth of his mouth left mine. He pressed our foreheads together and he whispered along with his thought that echoed through my head, “What do you do to me?”

I dared a chuckle, “Anything you’d like.”

Our eyes met, and all I knew were his dark irises pulling me in, “ _Hervennya,_ you don’t know what I like anymore. I have changed so much since… since the last time. You haven’t been there for me any of the times I needed you most. I can’t tell if that’s worse than you being the cause of them.”

I didn’t, strictly speaking, need to breathe, but breath was hard to come by at that moment. “I know. If there is anything I can do…”

“Leave him.” Maglor trembled as he whispered, “You can begin to sew these wounds when you denounce him and come back to me.”

“Makalaurë, you know I can’t do that.” Stone guilt weighed upon me.

“No, I don’t!” I could hear him telling himself not to cry, “I don’t know what draws you to him. What compels you to follow his lead? He has taken what was good in our lives and corrupted it. He drove my father mad, drove us all to pain and ruin, and I can’t imagine what good you see in a being like that.”

A hundred counter-arguments ran through my head, of Fëanor’s downfall and neglect by the Valar, of freedom and honour, but so few of those thoughts were my own. “I’m sorry.”

His breath and stance were unsteady as he melted away from me, “That’s not enough.”

“I know.” I reached for his hand and it was like trying to hold mist.

“You _should_  leave.”

“I should.”

The parts of the fortress without Maglor seemed so quiet and still. My horse looked at least somewhat refreshed. I pushed the gates open without so much as a stray glance from the guards, and the night was the kind that hinted at a northern sort of spring, with Varda’s watchful, twinkling stars shining their grey laughter on the road to Angband.

-

The night was the kind that, even as I was chasing my words and filling out blueprints of an enemy garrison in my head, I could feel Maglor pushing aside, for the time being, thoughts of restructuring and strengthening to keep us guessing. The night was that kind that had his warm, blossoming pleasure bleeding into me, playing over and over the cool-fresh memories of being trapped between the thing that took so long to build and the wall of his fortress. We both knew it would be a long time before we would be that close again. When he was done, his sheets damp with sweat and his body worn out, I heard him sing soft from miles off.

_It’s in the air,_   
_I long for your touch, love, please don’t stare._   
_I open myself,_   
_As a penniless man bequeaths his wealth._   
_Valar, don’t go,_   
_You’ve brought me this far, don’t leave me so._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again with that thing where the third section is the message from nerdanel.

My arrival at Angband was turned into a call for a meeting, which mostly consisted of charcoal shaking ever so slightly in my hand while I recited what I could remember of the structure of the fortress at Maglor’s Gap. Thuringwethil bit down a giggle whenever I said ‘Maglor’s Gap’, much to the confusion of everyone except myself and Mairon, who could do little but offer her threatening gestures. By the time it drew to a close, Melkor had on a rare smile, illuminated ever so strangely by the light of the Silmarils on his crown. He told me, “It’s a good thing that your dalliance with the Elf is of use to us.”

I decided not to think about that too much. Most of the officials and Melkor himself left the meeting room as I was gathering myself, contemplating a visit to the Dragons. Only Mairon was left. They were frozen in their place, standing with their hands on the table and staring down at nothing. I looked at them in concern, “Are you all right?”

They drew a sharp, uneasy breath, “He’s here.”

They didn’t explain. “Who?”

Mairon raised their head slowly, and I saw the glowing golden pulse from their eyes, their Hröa looking somewhat as though it was breaking apart with all their internal light that spilled through cracks in their skin. They opened their mouth for a moment before being able to tell me, “Eönwë. He’s come to Beleriand, I can feel it. Gothmog, what if… What if he’s here to…”

I rushed over to them, knowing better than to lay a hand on them and keeping my distance as much as I could while offering closeness, “He is likely just here on business from Manwë. I know it is difficult, but what do you see? I would not ask you unless I knew it would help us keep him out. What do you see of him?”

They closed their eyes in concentration and I felt a wave of their power burst out from them, rustling the leaves of parchment scattered on the table like a wind. They shuddered and sighed, leaning slightly into me for support. “He is here for the Noldor, not… not for me.”

I wasn’t about to push them any further, knowing the eggshell-and-glass history between Mairon and Eönwë, but I couldn’t help wondering exactly what he was doing outside of Valinor.

-

The white feathers framing his face were trembling with the wind coming off the mountains at Himring, but stayed rooted deep into his skin. All six of them had been assembled, tense and hopeful, ready to cut him down at a moment’s notice and each praying for some sign of good news out of Valinor. “Now that I have your ears, I shall deliver my message. Your mother Nerdanel wished to tell you of the state of things, and I shall repeat from her, word for word.”

Curufin, of course, spoke out first, “Why? Why now? How has she gotten word to us, yet the Maiar and your masters have remained silent from our father?”

Eönwë rolled his eyes, “For a start, your mother actually _wished_ to speak to you, where Fëanáro has expressed no such desire.”

Curufin opened his mouth in what looked like the beginning of an angry response, but was stopped short in his confusion. Eönwë continued, “Should I, then, tell you what she had to say, or are you sending me back to Valinor?”

Amras was panicked by that, “No, please. What was her message?”

Eönwë smirked, “I thought so.”

-

I think of you every waking day. There is so much to tell you, but really, there is also so little. I want to know everything that has been happening, I want to know that all of you are safe, and most of all I want to be there for you. If nothing else, know from me that coming here through the Halls of Mandos is not so terrible, for Amrod is here and in my care. He is growing quickly and remembers much of his life. He asks for you, but I will not tell you to return here for him. He will better understand the state of things in a few years. I am told that by his majority he should be able to recall everything up until his death.

Neither he nor I have sought out Fëanor, who is still being held in Mandos. There has been much argument among the Valar over whether he should stay that way or be reborn. I will not tell you what I think of the matter, but I do not forgive him for what happened to Amrod. He is not lacking for a parent, though, for I am living with Elemmírë now. She has never cared for children before, but she sings him to sleep and teaches him language and poetry and history like a tutor. There are days when the three of us will climb up the mountains here and look out to the east, and he will get a look in his eyes like he knows there’s something he’s missing.

I am sorry for focusing on our sadness and anger through all of this. There has been plenty of joy as well, and I have started sculpting again. Elemmírë models for me, and in turn I listen to her verses, which is hardly work. We have made a life together, and I am happy. I cannot say it is not bittersweet, because I still, of course, love and miss all of you, but do not despair for me. I know you shall see me again, in this life or the next.

-

They were silent for a few moments, each processing in his own way. Amras whispered to Maedhros, who in turn asked, “Can we give her our responses? Would you permit that?”

Eönwë shrugged, “I will have to ask it of Manwë, but you should tell me what to say now, in case he approves. It will take more than Elemmírë’s connection to Ingwë to convince me to return here.”

Curufin turned about and left the courtyard where they all stood, muttering something to himself. The rest of them offered soft words and the edges of tears to Eönwë, one at a time, and when they’d fallen silent Maglor pleaded him to stay for another moment while he looked for Curufin. He found his brother in the dining hall, sitting on the floor and staring down at his hands.

“Eönwë must leave soon, or else be discovered by Morgoth’s agents. Curufinwë, speak to him, or I know you will regret it. When will we have this chance again?”

“He should not have given us this hope. How can I speak with him? How can I trust him to carry any message back to Valinor when he is our enemy?” Curufin looked over to Maglor’s feet, “Tell me, Maglor. Tell me how you are so comfortable with our enemies at your gate. You may think that you have been secretive or subtle, but I know how close you have kept that Balrog. Him, and now Eönwë. He would see us jailed and kept in Námo’s grasp until the Valar are broken, and yet he acts as a ferryman for our mother’s tidings. Our mother who, it seems, has forgotten her commitment and bond to our father.”

Maglor had so much to disagree with, but he could not articulate any of it. Curufin finally met his eyes. “Can you not see how thoroughly we are cursed? Of course you can’t. You are instrumental in its perpetuation, offering Gothmog your bed and your body like some - ”

“That’s enough!” Maglor shook, “What I do with my husband, in my own stronghold, is none of your concern.”

Curufin challenged him with nothing more than the expression on his face. Maglor breathed, “Have it your way. I’ll not make Ëonwë wait for you to get over yourself, because he will be waiting more than an Age.”

Storming from the room, Maglor’s mind flickered with doubt.

-

I found Mairon in the hall on the way to their tower, and caught their shoulder as they were about to pass me by, “His brothers know I was at his fortress.”

Mairon raised their eyebrow, “Does he?”

“I… yes, of course.”

“Of course? You were supposed to spy on him. All the information you gathered is useless - I’m sure they are working to evade us as we speak.” They narrowed their eyes and leaned in ever so slightly, nose twitching like a dog’s, “Did you sleep with him?”

“No.”

They stared me down, “You know I have to inform Melkor of your incompetence, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Have some self-restraint, will you?” They stalked off towards Melkor’s chambers, leaving scorching footprints in the stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very sorry about the ambarussa


End file.
